


Baptism

by Abraxas (Methleigh)



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Methleigh/pseuds/Abraxas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A child discovers the eldritch secret possessed by cultists on the terrible prairie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baptism

William sat in his small sloop, waiting just out of view of land. It was 1881 on the eve of the winter solstice, offshore Montrose, Scotland. The night was clear but moonless, the water so dark it was only distinguishable from the sky by its lack of stars. He was bundled in thick layers of wool against the numbing cold. There were no other craft in sight.

Three days ago a child of the sea and stars had been born. Its Mother was an ancient creature from beyond the sky; its Father an Old One of the deep. Tonight he would receive this Spawn into his care. He would take it to a watery incubator in the colonies. He had determined the longitude and latitude in accordance with auguries made from the conjunctions of unholy constellations. When the child had grown powerful enough, its Father would return from the sea to claim it. That would take over a century, for it would mature slowly. In the meantime, he would nourish it and worship it. He must ensure there would be others to care for it after his passing.

He scanned the heavens, noting the impenetrable darkness that blotted out the stars, heralding the arrival of The Mother. A black gargantuan mass plummeted into the water and he could barely keep the boat from capsizing. Dread filled him and he cowered in terror despite himself. Something large and heavy dropped over the gunwale, making a nasty squelching sound. A great wind rushed over him. The darkness lifted, and he could see the stars again. He lifted the strange formless slimy thing and let it ooze from his arms into a water-filled casket he had prepared as its cradle. The sea regained its calm.

It was more than a hundred years later in another country. Lily, in a little calico dress, sat on her straw-stuffed mattress, swinging her shoes carelessly. As this brought a protestation from the bed below, she stilled and looked around the barn. She was in the loft and had an upper bunk. No straw could fall down upon her, as it did when she had to sleep in the lower berths. It was the yearly convening of The Lord's people, and they would listen to sermons, pray, read scripture, sing hymns, eat and work together for an entire week.

There were three hundred identical mattresses. Women and girls moved around on them, unrolling sleeping bags, opening suitcases, hanging belongings on the cord tacked in front of the bunks. Clothes hangers heavy with plastic-covered Sunday dresses caused flannels and towels to collect damply in the centre of each length of cord. The lower bunks were in shadow, but there was movement there as well. The stalls at ground-level housed the nursing mothers and the elderly - those who couldn't negotiate the ladders and stairs in the loft. As they needed quiet, Lily had never been allowed downstairs. At the end of each aisle was a tin wash-bowl that one could fill from the water-barrels outside. Above each bowl hung a mirror the older girls used to fix their hair on top of their heads in buns, queuing up every morning long before the rising bell. Strings of bare light-bulbs ran the length of the barn, one each side of the roof. A barn nearby housed the men and boys. Lily watched the people selecting beds as they arrived.

She detected a jarring note in the parade of belted black rain-coats. A splash of red Gortex - a girl with short curls and her hood thrown back. She was much older than Lily, but not really a woman, and she had a backpack and a guitar case as well as a sleeping bag. Lily pulled back to lay on her stomach, peering over the edge of her mattress, eyes wide.

Her mama looked over at her change in posture. "Don't put your feet on the bed. Oh, that's Gladys. She is of The World now, but as she's here, perhaps she will return to The Faith. Don't stare! It's not polite." Lily stared.

Gladys climbed the ladder into the bunk opposite, somehow making room on the mattress for bag, pack, and the large black case. Sitting again on the edge of the bed, Lily was patient while her mama knelt behind her tightly replaiting her long dark hair. She still stared, but when Gladys saw and smiled she looked away, not shy, but guilty at her interest in The World. She waited while her mama secured her own hair up in the severe knot that all the women wore. Lily could scarcely tell them apart. She glanced wistfully at Gladys' pretty curls and followed her mama down the ladder, across the wooden planks and down the stairs.

"Don't stomp so, you'll disturb the people sleeping below."

Lily paid little heed. They were on their way to work in the dining hall, and this year she was going to be a water girl and help set the tables. Her mama had made her a little apron that had a towel sewn right on. The other girls only had separate towels. Last year she had only had the job of collecting serving spoons. She was very proud. Her mama, of course, was a real waitress in charge of her own table. Her papa helped wash the dishes.

The dining hall was a long tubular shed of corrugated tin that sounded deafening in the rain. It had long trestle tables and benches that seated five hundred people each sitting. They ran to set the tables. The dishes were hot from the massive steam unit, scalding Lily's fingers even through the towel. The air was warm, moist and clinging. A long low whistle signalled the beginning of the meal, and the crowd of people surged in as the front of the building slid up with a clang. Everyone sat down and there was a great clattering as they turned over their plates and cups. Grace was sung, though the words were unintelligible. Lily ran to fill and refill her big tin jug to pour water for those who wanted it. Older girls poured tea and coffee. Afterwards, the dirty dishes were rushed in wire baskets to the men ready at the steam unit and the whole procedure was repeated.

The third sitting, Lily got to eat. They had stew, bread, water, and then pie. Each of the women brought a half-dozen of these home-baked pies - apple, blueberry, raisin, rhubarb. City people brought large containers of food from wholesale distributors. People from the farms brought produce and slaughtered animals. The carcasses hung in a special shed open on all sides, but covered in tight mesh to keep out insects. Men used large knives to slash off chunks of meat for each meal. When Lily passed by she always looked away.

After the meal Lily collected her toothbrush and towel and followed her mama off to wait in the queue at the women's outhouse. It was a shed built above a deep pit and could seat twelve people at a time on wooden boxes, each with a hole cut out of the middle. There were walls between them, creating stalls, but there were no doors, except at the end, where a curtain was hung across one of the cubicles. Embarrassed, Lily always used this one, turning her face to the wall as she walked by the other women. After, she washed her hands in the tin bowl at the front, and poured a little water from a bucket into a tooth-glass to clean her teeth. The smell was terrible - dirty, batrachian, festering. And old. She tried to hold her breath, but her ablutions took too much time.

"Mama, why don't they have real bathrooms here?"

"We must be grateful for everything here, in the presence of The Lord. He expects things to be as they have always been. Don't ask questions!" Her mother was stern.

An enormous meeting tent had been set up in a nearby field. Once it had been emblazoned in circus slogans, elephants, tigers jumping through hoops of fire, but a century of use had rendered it a consistent grey. At the front was a low stage. Fastened to the tent-poles were scratchy wooden speakers from a sound system that had been purchased in the thirties. Large flakes of sawdust were spread over the dirt floor and watered each evening to keep down the dust from the feet of 1500 people. Sawhorses had been set up and boards laid across them to form benches. Lily's papa had spread their blanket over some of the boards, claiming their seats.

The first sermon was about modesty of appearance. "The Lord must be able to recognise His people when He returns. Will He find them among the throngs wearing blue-jeans in the streets? No! He will look among the quiet people dressed humbly, and He will know those that have kept His teachings and statutes. He will know His own by the marks that set them apart from The World. We must not change as fickle fashion, but remain as The Lord remembers us, for He changes not." The words were familiar to Lily. She didn't want to be the girl mortified by her pants and loose hair when the ministers called unexpectedly. She looked around for Gladys to see how she was taking the news.

The second sermon was about self-denial. "We renounce the things of The World to demonstrate our willingness to serve The Lord. Who should belong to His kingdom but those who have demonstrated their faithfulness? We must pass these tests to prove ourselves worthy. We must be as sheep, following our Lord, ready to bow down to His will, not as goats, stubborn and tough." Lily was used to this, too. She knew she had to make personal sacrifices to please The Lord. She was glad she belonged to a church where she knew everyone was good. Everyone here kept themselves pure by denying themselves the things of The World - things like movies, music and television. It was a test of faithfulness. She wondered what it would be like to belong to a different, false church, where you would never know if people were outlaws or bank robbers.

The third sermon was about separating oneself from The World. It was not enough to eschew its seductive trappings, or to hold oneself against the desire to taste its empty pleasures. One had to be careful to keep oneself from the wiles of The Lost as well. The children at school were lost. They might as well be dead. They actually were dead, without The Lord. They just didn't know it. She knew she couldn't be friends with them. Why, she could become Lost as well, following their vain ways! It was even worse to Lose Out when one had known The Lord than to have never have known him. She remembered when the ministers had visited her uncle's home when he had been helping his neighbours with flood relief. That was the same thing. It was squandering the gifts of The Lord on those who were unworthy. She remembered afterwards he looked tired and sad, spreading his hands helplessly. He had probably nearly been lost himself. Her own uncle. Her mind drifted. 

The service lasted for hours. Lily had sat in church so often and so long that she could hardly hear the words any more. The things around her were far more real, far more immediate. Even in their inertness they were more interesting. She reached forward secretly to stroke the soft sweater of the woman sitting in front. She plaited the fringes of the blanket on the bench. Using her watch, she timed her pulse, tested how long she could hold her breath. She engaged in mental mathematics. There were small tricks she could do with her fingernails to keep herself occupied. She could take single hairs from her own head and run them between her nails, making them coil into tiny perfect springs. The hymn books were covered in clear plastic. By holding her hand at a certain angle and giving it the right amount of impetus, she could draw her nail heavily across it, leaving a trail of even curving railroad tracks. She picked up pieces of sawdust from the floor and scored faces into their soft wood grain.

Eventually they were all served scaldingly hot cocoa. There was to be a hymn sing-song in the barn before they went to sleep. Back on her bunk, Lily looked across at Gladys, concerned. Only people of The World played guitars. They were for rock music. Yet the older girl had her guitar out and was practising the hymns of The Lord. This was bad enough. But behind her, Lily could see that she had tacked up pictures on the beam above her mattress. Awful pictures. Worldly pictures that she must have drawn herself. Pictures of long-haired boys; pictures of girls dancing. Worst of all was a crucifixion scene. That was idolatry! And it was a symbol of the churches of The World. Lily was horrified that such things should be present on holy ground. She crept into bed to think instead of sitting at the edge of the bunk singing, like the other girls her age.

From there she could see the women kneeling on the bunks getting into their night-gowns. Idly looking at her mama, she noticed long deep scars, ragged, stretching the whole length of her back. Old scars. Lily wondered what could have caused them, for she had never heard her parents tell a story accounting for them. Perhaps her mama had been carried off by an eagle when she was a baby? No. Lily looked at the other women around her, seeing them from the back wall. Everyone expected her to be sitting at the front, listening. They all had the scars. She knew there were secrets that adults kept from little girls, and she pretended to be asleep, lest they wonder if she would ask questions. Glancing at Gladys as she quickly changed in the last light, Lily saw that her back was clear and clean. Even in this, Gladys didn't belong. Laying awake, Lily thought of a plan.

Breakfast, lunch, and the morning and afternoon services took all Lily's time. It was not until dinner that she was able to gather some of the other little girls around her. They bent their heads close together and she told them about Gladys and the pictures she had seen. They were all as shocked as Lily was and agreed that something had to be done. The religious convention was sacred - the only time in the year when all of The Lord's people gathered together to worship Him. Gladys and her things of The World must not be allowed to defile the sleeping quarters.

Lily would arrange to sit next to young Muriel and her family during the evening service. Then, the next morning, she would tell her mama she was going to sit beside them again. But she would hide somewhere outside. She could slip into the barn and take Gladys' things and burn them. If afterwards she listened to the sermon from outside the tent, she could join the waitresses as they went to prepare the dinner sittings. They argued about burning the guitar - it was large and had probably cost money. They decided to warn Gladys first, to allow her to repent. Lily volunteered for this task too. They all felt very holy and good - glad that they had the opportunity to do something for their faith.

The sermons ended early that night, as the ministers were going to hold baptisms. These were not of infants, but of young men and women who had made the choice to serve The Lord. Only people who kept all the statutes could be baptized, when they were older. They all stood together in front of the stage, so everyone could see them. The ministers said a brief prayer, "Bless these thy servants, who offer themselves up to The Lord."

There would be a special service at the baptismal pool, in which they would be fully immersed. Only those old enough to partake of the ritual were permitted to attend, and those already baptised, and the ministers. Lily was far too young. The baptismal pool was located in a neighbouring field, down a lane lined by thickets. Sometimes the ministers or the older people went walking there during the meal sittings. But Lily had always been too busy to go.

Sitting on the edge of her mattress, her hands shook as pretended to look through her hymnbook. As she was only briefly unsupervised, she would have to talk to Gladys now. The older girl's bunk seemed to be eighty feet away, rather than eight. If anyone wanted to know why Lily was talking to her, she would say she had lost her flannel. She hurriedly took it from the cord, stuffed it under the mattress and glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. A drone of hymns was coming from the baptismal pool. Taking a deep breath, Lily climbed down the ladder, crossed the aisle, and stood on the bench that had been built around the lower level of bunks. Her head barely cleared the top of the mattresses above it.

"Hi there! I'm Gladys. And what's your name?" She seemed to be reading a novel!

"Hello." She stared at the pictures behind the older girl, despite herself. "Um, you know, well, I heard some girls talking and..." She tried for calm. "They were talking about how they were going to burn your things - you know, those pictures and things. Your guitar. And about how you shouldn't have them here." She finished virtuously.

Gladys sounded amused. "Now, I don't think anyone here would do a thing like that. These are all people of The Faith. Don't worry! Why don't you sit up here beside me? I'll let you try my guitar. Would you like that?"

She shook her head mutely, bounding off to Muriel's bunk to tell her she had been successful. Her young friend handed her a packet of matches she had borrowed from the cookhouse and Lily stowed it in her apron pocket.

The next morning Lily waited after breakfast until her mama had gone to the meeting tent. She took a cup and slipped into the pump-house. It was a small building where she could look as if she were getting a drink of water, should anyone come in. And no one was likely to do so. She stayed ready to pose holding the cup under the spigot until the sounds of the first hymn crossed the field. It sounded muted at that distance - a buzzing unison rather than the somewhat discordant disparate voices Lily heard when she was in the midst of the singing. The ministers wrote all the hymns. Other religious music was considered to be of The World.

Skipping across the yard to the barn, and having no one to watch her, she felt light and free. She felt the morning chill though, even through her little sweater, and her socks were soaked cold from the heavy dew in the long grass. Reaching the barn, she hesitated at the door to the lower floor rather than climbing the stairs to the loft. She had never been allowed into the quiet area. No one would know if she just looked, to see what it was like. No one would be there now, needing quiet. And she had lots of time. The door creaked as she opened it, and she saw rows of folding army cots. Thin cotton curtains hung between them and over the barn windows. The light was dim and everything appeared grey. It was all shadows - some dark, some lighter. There was a motion at the far end, where the last few beds held indistinct lumps of bodies.

A voice called to her hoarsely and a little hysterically. "Who is that? Come here! Who's there?" There was a loud moan from another bed.

Obedient but tentative, Lily came closer. Were some people ill? Maybe she should get someone older. She looked at the bed, into the face of an older girl. One of the girls who had been baptised the night before, she thought. She was crying and sitting up. Lily put her hand on the dark bed and it came away wet. Maybe they hadn't been allowed to dry off. Maybe it was holy water - the water of The Lord. She looked over at the next bed, where another girl lay outside the covers. Her back was bare and turned to Lily and she saw heavy black swathes drawn across it from her shoulders to her waist, as thick as her arm against the shaded white of her skin. The paint seemed to be running. Why had she been painted?

"Oh, it hurts so much. Please make it stop. Help me." The girl against whose bed she was standing seized her wrist, wailing. Her nails bit into Lily's skin.

She drew back, her courage at an end. She had no idea what was going on. "I'm only a little girl." She fled out the door. What had happened to them? Maybe they were crazy.

Still having a mission, she climbed the stairs to the loft above. It was much brighter, and she quickly made her way up to Gladys' bunk. She hesitated at the guitar, but took the three novels in a row below the beam. As she took the pictures from their tacks she noticed that she was spreading dark red liquid from her hand over them. It didn't matter, as she was going to burn them anyway. She could read and half-wanted to look at the novels, but she resisted. She didn't want to corrupt her mind. On her way out she paused to wash in the soap-cloudy water of the front basin. Water! She would want water, in case the fire got out of control.

Ashes or a smell of burning in the pump-house would create consternation. Someone might worry. And she didn't want to stand out in the open by the water barrels too long. Someone disciplining a child might come out of the meeting tent and see her. She elected to walk down the lane and around the thickets to the baptismal pool.

The sun had come out as she walked. It was about half a mile and the bushes in the lane caught the light. They were fresh and green in the spring air. The morning dew dried in the grass. She was surprised when she arrived at the pool. Rather than a tiny natural lake, it was a huge rectangle, cut sharply into the sod of the field and lined with stone. She could see strange amorphous shapes rounded in the depths of the bottom. Something bright sparked despite the slightly murky water. At one end were stone steps leading below the surface. Above them she found a small cleared area that already seemed to contain ash.

It was easy enough to light the fire there. She crumpled up the drawings, feeding the pages from the novels into their quick blaze. These took a little longer to burn as she tore them off in groups, the glue from the spines separating with a snap. To keep herself company she sang a hymn. It was one she had heard coming from the baptism when she had been listening in her bunk the night before. It would be hours before the service finished. She took off her heavy shoes and sat on the edge of the pool, dangling her feet in the water. A cloud passed over the sun and ripples moved across the surface of the pool. Holy water - the water of the Lord. She had cleansed the grounds of defilement. She too was a servant of The Lord. She too was holy.

Here she was, all by herself by the baptismal pool. She could baptise herself. She could perform the ritual. What would it hurt? Lily wondered. She too could give herself to the Lord. She need never tell anyone, until she was old enough to be truly baptised. But she would know. She could be secretly good, and she would be saved from The World. When The Lord returned she would not be among The Lost. She would be one of His chosen people. In church only the elders said their prayers and spoke of their gladness to serve The Lord. Now she could do so along with them, under her breath, of course. She would be a real member of the church, even though no one would know.

If she went all the way into the water - completely immersed herself like they did in the real baptisms - her clothes would be wet and everyone would wonder why. But perhaps she could just see how deep she could wade into the pool. Perhaps that would be enough. She stood up and paused importantly above the steps. Considering, she tucked her long skirt up as high as she could, gathering it over her arm. Her shoes were in her other hand.

"Bless thy servant who offers herself up to The Lord." Intoning the words she had heard the ministers speak the night before, she started seriously down the steps. Into the water below.

There were no ministers to present her to receive the marks of The Lord. There were none of The Lord's servants to protect her. She was all alone.

Soon she reached the second stair, water to her knees. There was a vast stirring in the pool, and she stepped down once again. A great corpulent shape burst forth from the water, streaming tendrils of slime over her and onto the sod. It howled inarticulately and she caught a flash of yard-long claws and fearsome teeth behind a mass of squirming tentacles. Its stunted wings spread stickily, throwing the tiny girl in shadow. Her mind spun. Her eyes went blank with horror. As she stumbled, floundering and thrashing blindly in the water, she felt the cruel claws slicing her flesh, lifting her towards the horrible churning face and ravening jaws. Oozing suckers seized her and she was drenched in thick putrid caustic saliva. The world turned black and she knew no more. It was quickly over.

Her mama missed her in the dining hall at dinner, and though she talked to Muriel's mother, neither she nor anyone else had seen Lily since breakfast. A search was quietly mounted among the farm buildings and neighbouring fields. Announcements were made from the stage following the afternoon sermon. Inquiries were made at nearby farms.

There was no trace left. She had utterly vanished from the earth. The only clue was the bloody handprints on the ladder to Gladys' bunk.


End file.
